


NASA

by Bellelaide



Series: ENT [8]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, This is so angsty, if u don’t want to be sad turn back now, its going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-16 17:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18695650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: “I need space.”“Space from us?”John stood and straightened up, rolled his shoulders. “Yeah.” He turned around and looked at Jordan levelly. “Space from you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Listen this one’s going to suck before it gets better again. But relationships do suck and it isn’t all rainbows and in my opinion angst makes the world go round. 
> 
> Title is not the space organisation but Ariana grande’s song of the same name which is probably john’s mood rn

Six weeks, his fucking groin had been bothering him for now. Six weeks and John hadn’t had a proper game of footie, hadn’t been on the pitch for longer than 45 minutes, hadn’t seen his name in a starting XI. At first it’d been almost welcome - he was feeling burnt out, and there was no chance of any reprieve, not with City still competing for all four titles. The painful stretch of his thigh had been scary, but then he’d thought - I’m going to get a break out of this. I’m going to get to rest. 

The medics said it wasn’t a big deal, nothing serious. He’d be alright after a few weeks, couple physio sessions. They’d estimated three weeks out at the most, which was nothing crazy. He’d miss the Carabao cup final, but he’d certainly contributed to that win. He didn’t feel like a fraud accepting his medal. He decided not playing in the final was an easy compromise to make for a bit of rest, a couple of lie ins, the chance to watch Loose Women on the couch and have a nice dinner ready for Jordan getting home from training. 

John, funnily enough, found that he quite enjoyed being a house husband. He had been watching Mrs Hinch on Instagram and he was enjoying keeping on top of the housework, folding the clothes in their drawers into perfect rectangles à la Marie Kondo, bleaching the bathtub and zoflora-ing the worktops. He liked having Jordan come home at the end of the day to a cosy house and a meal in the oven, sweaty and dirty and sexy. 

He’d been letting his hair grow out and his beard was filling in too, the need to be clean shaven and professional gone with his injury. Jordan loved it, loved playing with his curls and nosing through his beard, loved the burn of it on his soft inner thighs when John was down there - and he was, more often than not, down there. 

The City boys missed him, of course. Kyle was especially put out about the whole thing, and John could see how their entire defence fell apart when he wasn’t there. Laporte got unnecessarily aggressive, like he was making up for something with John gone, and the rest of the team fed off the energy. It made them lose composure, lose control. It was painful to watch. 

John had to be at physio three times a week, and he’d stop off and visit the boys when he went in. Kyle was like a bloody limpet when he did, attaching himself to John’s side and whining that he was so alone, so bored. John rolled his eyes and grinned, patting Kyle on the back of the neck and shaking his head. 

“You’re a full time job, Walks,” he laughed fondly. “I should be paid another wage just for keeping you entertained.” 

“I am actually paid another wage for putting up with you,” Kyle shot back, pointing at John conspiratorially. “It’s top secret, but someone had to take one for the team and be your designated buddy. 30K extra a week I get for it.” 

John stretched his legs out and folded his arms, leaning back against the wall of the locker room. “Shut up, you pellet. I’m worth more than 30K.” 

Somewhere to their left John heard laughter, and he looked around happily at Leroy who was walking in from outside, studs clicking against the linoleum. He locked eyes with John and grinned, this stunning thing that made John’s stomach flip. 

“You look good, Stonesy,” he said, eyes flickering over John’s hair. 

John said nothing, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, and watched as Leroy disappeared in the direction of the showers. He was brought back down to Earth by Kyle swatting the back of his head. 

“Close your mouth, John, there’s a good lad,” he teased. 

John frowned at Kyle and blinked. “Shut up. Anyway - 30K, you said?” 

Kyle started off ribbing John again, and John tried not to think about how Leroy Sanè’s legs looked in those leggings. 

— 

When he got home that evening all thought of anyone else was sent away from his mind by the sight of Jordan in the shower, water running off his eyelashes and chin, dripping down his stomach, sliding over his feet. He smiled warmly at John when he pushed open the bathroom door, motioning with his head for John to join him, scrubbing a hand across his hair. 

John felt his heart clench and he pulled his jumper over his head, stepped out of his joggers rapidly. He pushed open the glass door and stepped into Jordan’s space, dry skin on wet skin, the sudden heat of running water. John kissed Jordan’s shoulder and licked at the taste of body wash, something expensive Jordan had been pressured by the Selfridges salesgirl into buying. He let his hands wrap around Jordan’s waist as he sought out the pulse point in his neck like a vampire, nosing at tendons and lymph nodes and skin until he found it, soft and thudding under his jaw, proof that he existed and was real and alive in John’s hands. 

“Hi,” Jordan said eventually, his own arms wrapping around John’s broad shoulders. “Got away early today. Wanted to cook you something.” 

John smiled against Jordan’s neck and moved his index finger up his spine, counting the knobs. Sometimes he’d be overwhelmed by the fact they did this, that they were together like this, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears of emotion at the thought. Reluctantly he pulled his head back so they were eye to eye and pressed a soft kiss to Jordan’s forehead. 

“I can go out and come back in a bit?” John offered, sliding his nose over Jordan’s. “Or we could eat the stuff the nutritionist dropped off on Monday and use our time do other stuff.” 

“Yeah? Like, lobby our MP to push for a people’s vote?” 

John laughed at that, rubbing his lips against Jordan’s and finally putting a kiss to his mouth. “You’ve been spending too much time with Dier.” 

“No, I’ve been spending too much time with you.” 

“I don’t want a people’s vote. Brexit means Brexit.” 

“Wow. Talk dirty to me, Stonesy.” 

John dropped to his knees then, and, for the time being, neither of them were thinking particularly hard about Brexit. 

— 

Later that evening John was laying with his head in Jordan’s lap drifting in and out of consciousness, sighing dreamily at each tug of his hair. They’d eaten the nutritionist’s food in the end once they’d finally made it out of the shower, and they’d been on the couch ever since, the TV playing quietly in the background. 

“John?” Jordan said absently, rubbing at his earlobe. “Go and make us a brew, will you?” 

John’s instinct was to say no, but that was overwhelmed by the need to give Jordan what he wanted and make him happy. He stretched out his legs and rolled his ankles, yawning and looking up at his boyfriend. 

“‘m injured.” 

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Go and make me a cup of tea.” 

John rolled to his feet. “Alright, alright,” he mumbled, padding off towards the kitchen. It was the least he could do, all things considered. He filled the kettle and pushed the button down, pulling their favourite mugs out of the cupboard and tossing teabags into them. He put a spoonful of sugar into Jordan’s and then leaned back against the counter, waiting for the kettle to finishing boiling. He was staring at the floor and thinking about nothing in particular when one of their phones dinged where they were charging near the fridge. 

John meandered over and picked up his phone. There were no notifications, so he glanced down at Jordan’s. There was a text there, begging for John to read it. He bent closer and peeked at it - it was from Mason Holgate, and it said ‘cant stop laughing at you earlier man but would def not say no to a blowy if it came up ;)’ John read it over once, twice, three times. The kettle bubbled and steamed behind him but he didn’t care, any desire for a cup of tea long forgotten. John pulled Jordan’s phone out of the charging cable and stomped back to the living room, his brow set low. 

Jordan looked up at him happily but his face dropped when he saw John’s expression. He opened his mouth but John got there first, holding up Jordan’s phone and pointing at the notification. 

“Why is Mason Holgate messaging you about blow jobs?!” 

Jordan blinked at the phone, then at John. “Excuse me?” He asked, voice level. 

John looked at the text again. “Would never say no to a blowy, wink emoji?” 

“Why are you reading my texts?” 

“Not reading them. It just popped up. Are you shagging Hol - “ 

“John. Think very carefully about what you’re about to accuse me of, here.” 

“Are you shagging Mason Holgate behind my back?” 

Jordan sprung up quickly, knocking John back a step with surprise. He snatched the phone out of John’s hand and put it in his pocket, eyeing John carefully. 

“No. I’m not shagging Mason Holgate behind your fucking back. And fuck you for suggesting it.” 

He turned around and walked away and John was left standing there a bit stunned, irritated that Jordan hadn’t risen to the argument, anxious about the text he’d just seen. He folded himself into the corner of the sofa and tucked his knees under his chin, picking at a scab on his calf and waiting for Jordan to come back in and pick him up or tell him to stop being daft or ask him to come up to bed. 

Jordan didn’t do any of those things, though, and before long John found himself tipping over vertically, his head resting at an awkward angle on one of the fancy pillows the interior decorator had insisted on. He felt his eyes flickering closed against his will, and before long, he fell into an uneasy sleep. 

— 

John was woken up by a hand shaking him aggressively. 

“John. John. JOHN.” 

“What’s going on?” John mumbled, eyes opening to the dark living room. Jordan was stood in front of him, dressed in his training clothes and looking unimpressed. “Time’s it?” 

“It’s seven. I’m going to work now. You can go and get in bed, your neck’s probably fucked.” 

John sat up slowly and rubbed at his neck, which did indeed feel like he’d stuck a knife through it. “Jord,” John started, looking up at Jordan apologetically. 

“Haven’t got time for that now. I’ll see you when I’m home tonight.” 

“Jord,” John said again, more desperately. “Don’t go out angry at us.” 

A flash of softness crossed Jordan’s face, his love for John evident behind his eyes even though he was trying to be firm, to prove a point. He stuffed his hands in his pockets like they needed to be caged, like he didn’t trust them not to reach out, and stepped towards the door. 

“Got to go, gonna be late. Talk later, alright?” 

John watched sadly as Jordan turned and left, his key locking in the door behind him. He stretched his neck a bit and sighed, beating himself up for falling asleep on the couch and simultaneously destroying his spine and making Jordan think he was being petty. He pulled himself up off the couch and walked through the dark house to his bedroom. He had about three hours till he needed to be at physio, and he intended to chase those final couple of hours of sleep as much as he could. John pushed open the bedroom door and pulled his clothes off, dumping them on the floor and sliding under the sheets. The bed was still warm and smelled faintly of Jordan, and John curled up on his side and drifted off with a sigh. 

— 

Physio was boring and John’s mind was a thousand miles away. The woman he was working with could tell, and she let him get away for lunch a few minutes early, telling him to come back with a clear head. John smiled at her, that million dollar beam that was always getting him in trouble, and wandered off in the direction of the canteen. 

He chatted with the kitchen staff for a bit and picked up a chicken salad for lunch, choosing a seat near the back of the hall and flicking through his phone. Jordan hadn’t texted him all day, and John brought up their text history, staring at the white typing box and wondering whether or not to be the bigger person. He typed in the words ‘hello Jordan’ and deleted them instantly, feeling that it was too jokey, too nonchalant for how serious the situation felt. Either Jordan was flirting with his colleague behind John’s back, which wasn’t good, or he wasn’t doing anything of the sort but John thought him capable of it and had accused him, which was also not good. 

John chewed on his salad and thought about how much easier it’d be if they were out publicly. If people knew they were together they wouldn’t try it on, wouldn’t text inappropriate things at 9pm on a Monday night. Everyone would know John was Jordan’s and Jordan was John’s. Most people around them knew, of course, but - it was the periphery characters in their lives that posed the biggest threats. The ones who knew them enough to be interested, but not well enough to know that they were taken by another man.   
John bit down on his cheek accidentally and hissed, pain blooming across his face. He awkwardly brought his hand to his cheek and swallowed the mouthful of food he had, the coppery taste of blood chasing it down his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

John looked up at Leroy, who was standing over him with his own tray of food. John instantly forgot about the pain in his cheek and he nodded, dropping his hand and trying to remember how to form words. 

“Yeah. Bit my cheek.” 

Leroy smiled, his mouth tugging up to one side and spreading to his eyes, warm and shining. “Can I sit?” 

John nodded and pulled his own tray closer to himself, making space for Leroy to sit down. Leroy folded himself into his chair fluidly, graceful in the same way he was on the ball. John’s mouth was dry. 

“How is the injury?” Leroy prompted, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of chicken. 

“Good. Well, not good, obviously. It’s y’know, it’s giving us a bit of bother. Keep thinking I’m ready and then I’ll be on the treadmill and I’ll just fold, fucking rips up out of nowhere. Ready to be back out on the pitch, like.” 

Leroy hummed, finished his mouthful of food. “We’re missing you out there. So easy to pick apart the back line without you. No... none of them are comfortable calling all the shots. You know?” 

John tried not to blush, his mouth quirking up at the sides. “Yeah. I think I do. Laporte isn’t confident enough, I reckon.” 

“Not on his own. Not yet.” 

“You’re smashing it, though.” 

It was Leroy’s turn to look bashful then. He smiled down at his plate and John’s fingers flexed around his fork. He bit down on his cheek again, wincing at the pain. 

“Thank you. Doesn’t always feel that way, you know. But it’s been a good season.” 

“Definitely.” 

They smiled at each other then, maybe for a beat too long. John couldn’t have pulled his eyes away if he’d wanted to, not when Leroy was looking at him like that. John wanted to know if his face was as soft as it looked, and he wondered if that was clear in his expression. He needed to think of something to say, a way to continue the conversation, but nothing was forthcoming. It was comfortable anyway, not awkward, only quietly tense. 

“What you saying to it, Johnny?” 

John looked up to see Kyle bearing down on them, grinning and sliding his own tray down on the table. 

“Walks,” John said, half wishing Kyle would fuck off and leave them alone, half relieved that he had a distraction. 

“Alright?” Kyle said to Leroy, his eyes flickering over that angelic face so quickly John wondered if Kyle’s vision was compromised. “What’s new?” 

John shrugged and took a sip of water. “Had a fight with Jordan last night,” he said, willing his voice not to shake. “Slept on the couch and fucked my neck.” 

John hadn’t ever told his teammates explicitly that he was with Jordan Pickford but they’d mostly put two and two together. Still, Leroy’s eyes dropped to his plate, though John couldn’t tell if it was because he was uncomfortable with John’s sexuality or uncomfortable with the fact that John wasn’t single. 

“You two are always fucking fighting. You’ll be all lovey dovey again by tomorrow, guaranteed.” 

John shrugged. “I dunno, like. He’s angry at me. Proper angry.” 

“Suck his dick or something then, I don’t know.” 

“I’m going to get back,” Leroy said suddenly, pushing up from the table. John wanted to follow him, to just stare at him for a while whilst he ran drills or stretched or just... stood there. “See you later, Kyle. John - good luck with the physio, yeah?” 

John managed a smile as Leroy retreated, his eyes on the curve of his shoulder blades. John could admit to himself that he fancied him, thought he was fit. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with that - until he turned to look at Kyle, who was glaring at him suspiciously. 

“What?” John snapped, throwing his fork into his salad. “Why you looking at us like that?” 

“Wouldn’t happen to be fighting with your boyfriend because you’ve got eyes for someone else, would you?” 

“No. It’s him that’s got the wandering eye actually, smart arse.” 

“Pickford? I highly doubt it.” 

“You don’t know him like I do, and you don’t know the situation, so don’t get involved.” 

“Why you being so defensive?” 

“Why you being so annoying?!” 

Kyle stood up then, lifting his tray. “Catch you later, eh?” 

John watched him go sit somewhere else and hef bit down on his cheek again, using the pain to distract himself from the uncomfortable thoughts racing around his brain. 

— 

The day’s events had only served to put John in an even worse mood than he’d been in when he woke up. 

His neck was aching from his terrible sleep, Kyle had pissed him off, his injury was no closer to being healed. He drove home with his brow set low and a sense of fury buzzing under his ribs, his mind playing the different variations of argument he could have with Jordan when he got in. John worked himself up as he thought about Jordan’s cocky demeanour, replaying again and again the way it sounded when he chewed gum, thinking about how he nosed at his food with his fork before he speared a piece - just searching for any piece of fuel he could throw onto the fire of his mood. 

By the time he pulled up to the house he was blazing with rage, feeling the energy of it in his finger tips; at the base of his spine; sparking in his knees, even. Why was it John who had to sleep on the couch when Jordan was the one getting shady texts? Why were they behaving like an old fucking married couple? John stormed out of his car, slamming the door hard enough that it echoed around the street, and stomped up to the house. 

He banged the front door closed and took the stairs two at a time, his heart thumping. He didn’t really know what he was doing, felt like he was running on auto pilot, watching himself pull a suitcase out of the wardrobe like it was a movie and he was the main character. He was fuelling his rage with memories of arguments and failings, telling himself he was doing the right thing, telling himself he was making the right choice. He unzipped the suitcase and started throwing clothes in it haphazardly - shirts, some jeans, a couple Balenciaga hoodies. 

His heart picked up speed when he heard the sound of Jordan’s feet on the stairs, thundering up behind him and bursting into the room breathlessly. 

“John?! What’s going on?” 

“I’m going,” John said, not daring to turn around for fear of crumbling. “I need space.” 

“Need space? What? Space from what? John - “ 

“Space, space from all this,” John mumbled, feeling his eyes get hot. He wanted to stop, was thinking he should probably fucking stop this, but he couldn’t - he needed Jordan to stop it for him, take the clothes out of his hands and sit him down and tell him it was going to be okay. Jordan remained silent for a few beats, and John knew he wasn’t going to. 

“Space from us?” 

John stood and straightened up, rolled his shoulders. “Yeah.” He turned around and looked at Jordan levelly. “Space from you.” 

Jordan’s eyebrows furrowed an inch and John’s heart clenched. “Because - cos of that text? Because he was talking about a fucking media intern, John, not me - “ 

“Everything. Just everything. I’m - I feel claustrophobic as fuck. Do you not feel it? What are we doing, Jordan? We’re 25 years old. Are we going to get married, have some kids? What the fuck are we doing?!” John was panicking, all out. He wondered if Jordan could tell he was in the throes of a panic attack, wondered if he just wasn’t soothing John because he didn’t care anymore. Maybe they’d both stopped caring. 

“You’re claustrophobic, are you?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m - I can’t breathe.” 

“You want to go out and shag other people?” 

John didn’t want that, christ. He’d never have sex with anyone again the way he did with Jordan, and yet - “Yes. That’s what I want.” 

Jordan blew out a breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets, and John could see how his heart was tearing in his chest. He couldn’t take it back now, couldn’t un-say it, but all he wanted to do was go over there and stick his face into Jordan’s stomach until the manic energy coursing through him was gone and he felt normal again. 

“Alright, John. If that’s what you want.” Jordan looked at him, looked at him like he didn’t know him anymore, and John’s heart was screaming. “Bye, then.” He walked out like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as John. 

John was crying then, looking around the room that they shared and wondering if Jordan would care if he just got under the covers and pretended he hadn’t said any of that, Jesus fuck. Maybe if he went downstairs and said “I love you and I don’t know what’s going on with me right now.” Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Instead, John zipped up his suitcase, pulled his charger out of the wall, and left the house without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

John drove and drove and ended up at the Mercure hotel in Manchester, just till he could get himself sorted. 

He fell into the big white bed and cried until his head began to ache dully. His phone hadn’t lit up once, and he considered phoning Jordan and exclaiming “April fools?” for a fleeting second before he thought better of it. John climbed into the bed and tossed and turned for ages. Eventually he got up and opened his suitcase, pulling out a t shirt of Jordan’s that he’d stolen in his outburst and inhaling it deeply, feeling every nerve-ending in his body relax. John slid his pillow up the shirt so that he could sleep with Jordan’s smell near him, and finally fell unconscious. 

*** 

John felt like shit the following morning, physically and mentally. He was at war with himself - the part of him that thought this was the right thing to do, that he was young and shouldn’t be wifed up, shouldn’t be so fucking serious all the time, versus with the part of him that hadn’t breathed since he’d walked out the door, away from a person he loved more than he’d ever loved anyone. 

John showered and realised he’d forgotten his toothbrush in the house. He left the hotel a few minutes earlier and went to work via Boots, picking up a cheap electric Colgate number and some toothpaste. He walked into work with a face like thunder and it worked - no one spoke to him beyond the customary “Morning, John.” 

He brushed his teeth in the bathrooms sadly. John was completely unable to look himself in the eye, thinking that this was... a low point. Maybe one of the lowest points. Maybe worse than the time he’d thrown up in a strip club in Russia after they got put out the World Cup. He hadn’t drunk a thing but he told Hendo that he had so he didn’t look like a pussy who vomited from sadness. Maybe it was a lower point than the time he’d told Ross Barkley he liked him and Ross said “I’m not gay, and I think that’s minging too,” and John had ran a bath so scalding he’d needed special ointment to treat burns. That one made his mum cry, and he’d been so ashamed of himself it felt like a physical pain. Standing in the loos brushing his teeth right then felt lower than sitting on the bathroom floor of the club crying when Jordan didn’t want him almost a year ago. Standing in the mirror brushing his teeth right now, scruff on his chin, circles under his eyes and hours early for work - this felt like the most pathetic of them all. This one John had brought entirely upon himself. 

The toilet door banged open unceremoniously and John choked his toothpaste into the sink, mortified that he was about to be caught doing this. He looked behind him in the mirror and saw that it was Kev, his face as stormy as John’s. 

“Alright mate?” 

Kevin looked over at John and raised his eyebrows. “It’s early for you, isn’t it?” 

John shrugged and stuffed the toothbrush into his washbag, flicking off the tap. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just get right to work.” 

“You alright?” Kevin said, moving closer and narrowing his eyes. “You look rough, man.” 

John pasted on a smile. “I’m fine. Just - ready to get back out on the pitch. That’s all.” 

“You sure? We’re always here, John, if you ever - “ 

“I’m good,” John said again firmly. “I don’t really want to talk about it, bud.” 

“Okay. You have my number though, okay?” 

John nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Kev.” 

— 

John held it together as his teammates filtered into the complex one by one, sleepy looking but cheery - everyone loved their job, and it showed. He spoke briefly with Ederson and chatted to Vinny and the kit boys. No one pushed him, no one interrogated him, and then Kyle walked in and John knew that he knew and he crumbled. 

“The fuck’s going on?!” Kyle exclaimed as John approached him, though not unkindly. “Jordan phoned me in fucking tears. What the hell’s been happening?” 

“I’ve finished it,” John squeaked, pulling Kyle out into the corridor. “I’ve ended things and I feel like shit.” 

“Come here,” Kyle said gently, pulling John into a tight hug. “What’ve you done that for? Jesus Christ, John.” 

John was crying then, didn’t think he had any tears left but apparently he did because they were rolling out of his eyes into Kyle’s black training shirt, thick and fast. “I don’t know, fuck. I don’t know why I’ve done that,” he babbled, fists tightening in the back of Kyle’s shirt. Kyle shushed him and ran his hand up and down John’s back soothingly. They stood there like that for a while until John calmed down, stepping back from Kyle gingerly and wiping at his eyes. “No, that’s not true. I do know why. I just - I feel like it’s all so much.” 

“So much what?” 

“So... intense.” 

“I thought you were in love with him?” 

“I am,” John said, frowned. “I was. I don’t know. I think I just need some time, you know?” 

Kyle was looking at John so pityingly it made John feel sick. He observed John closely and then said “Has this got anything to do with Leroy?” 

“Lower your voice,” John hissed, glancing up and down the empty corridor. “Fuck. No, it doesn’t,” he stressed, but he was lying. He was lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Leroy since he’d finished with his boyfriend the night before. “Please don’t ask that again.” 

Kyle held up his hands and stepped back. “Fine, sorry. Just asking. Listen - I’m sure no one would mind if you took the day off. You look rough, honestly.” 

John shook his head. “Nah. Can’t be on my own right now.” 

“Where did you stay last night?” 

“Hotel.” 

“Oh. You’re always welcome at mine, like.” 

“Cheers Walks.” 

Kyle patted John on the shoulder and then returned to the locker room. John composed himself and followed, hoping his eyes weren’t too puffy. The whole team was there now, ready to head outside, and John couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered over to where Leroy was standing. 

Leroy was typing something on his phone, and John’s heart fluttered at the sight of him. Leroy looked up after a beat and made eye contact with John, his eyes flickering in a silent question. John smiled, nodded that he was okay, and headed off to his physio session. 

— 

The day dragged on impossibly slowly. John wasn’t much company, distracted and short tempered at best. He seemed to be making no progress and all he could do was replay the events of the previous night over and over in his mind. He skipped lunch, his appetite non existent, instead drinking a protein shake in his car and wondering whether or not to phone Jordan and see if he was okay. 

In the end he opted not to call, instead sending a text to a couple of his friends asking if they wanted to go out. A night out was exactly what he needed to feel young again, to feel like his old self. He took a deep breath and got out of the car. 

— 

Being in a nightclub always made John feel like the celebrity he was. 

It was easy to forget his status, easy to feel like a normal 25 year old lad when he was sat at home watching Corrie with Jordan. Being out in Manchester, though, everything was different. There was bottle service and people wanting pictures, girls in tight dresses falling all over him, hands on his biceps, tugging at his wrists. He was John Stones, England ace and Man City star. He was the king of fucking Manchester, had the world at his feet. He felt invincible. 

John and his mates took a couple of lines before they went out, and he was wired in the club. Everything seemed brighter, more exciting. He’d told his friends before they went out that he was single now, didn’t want to discuss it. They’d exchanged glances but didn’t push it, and for that John was thankful. 

He moved through the club like billy big bollocks, exchanging numbers with pretty girls and making lingering eye contact with pretty boys. He was a fucking superstar here, worlds away from his home life. He felt energy searing through his veins, on top of the world, as high as he could be. One minute he was standing on the table pumping his fist to Steve Aoki, next thing he was necking some girl who’d pulled him down by the wrist, and this was different, totally different to what he was used to, and suddenly he was sad and crashing, his mood plummeting, Jordan’s name coursing through his brain on repeat. All he wanted to do was go home, open the door and walk up the stairs and climb into bed beside him, hold his hand, feel his scruff against John’s neck. 

“I’ve got to go,” John was saying to his friends, face chalk white. “Got to get out of here.” 

“You okay?” Lewis said, holding John’s shoulder firmly. “You need me to phone Jor - you need me to phone someone?” 

“Nah, nah. No. Gonna go home,” he replied, already heading off towards the exit, biting down a sob, hands going numb. 

He was home within the hour, crying into his makeshift t-shirt pillow. 

— 

John knew when to admit defeat. 

He took the following day off work and drove to his mum and dad’s house. Being at home was nice and familiar and he cried into his mum’s arms for a bit, telling her how he felt and what he’d done. She told him she didn’t really understand it but that she supported him, that she always would, and tucked John into the spare bed for a nap. 

When he woke up he felt better, enjoying the silence of the suburbs. His dad made lunch which they ate on the patio in the back garden, discussing family things that John had missed, talking about the Premier League and the upcoming Champions League games against Spurs. 

John’s parents told him he couldn’t keep staying in a hotel, not if he thought this was going to be long term. They helped him get in contact with the apartment complex that a few of his teammates stayed at during the season, securing a fully furnished apartment on a rolling short term lease. Not for the first time, John mused that he’d be lost without his parents. 

His mum wanted him to stay but he had to get back, back to work in the morning. His parents stood in the doorway and watched his car disappear down the street. As soon as he could no longer see them in his rear view mirror he felt sad again, lonely and lost. The drive back to Manchester was bleak and sad and John nearly texted one of the girls from the other night just so he wouldn’t have to be alone. 

He got back to the hotel and lay in bed looking through old pictures and videos of him and Jordan on his phone, some of them making him laugh, some of them making him sad. They were so goofy together, and John’s heart hurt as he thought about it, about how Jordan’s eyes lit up when John walked into the room, ribbing him for the way he was cooking an egg or how he was dancing to rave music with the volume turned all the way up. 

John fell asleep with his phone in his hand, a photo of Jordan lying back against the pillows with a lazy grin on his face and his eyes focussed on the person behind the camera. 

— 

John was back on the pitch with the lads the next day, and it was the first time he’d felt like himself for weeks. 

Not being confined to the physio rooms was like inexpensive therapy, sucking all the demons out of his brain and replacing them with easy banter and the feel of studs on grass. John was genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks, first time since he’d injured himself, it felt like. He was slow and a bit out of form but still on top of the world. 

He was more tactile with Leroy than usual, letting himself be openly flirty. He earned himself a few raised eyebrows but it was worth it for the feel of electricity when their arms brushed, John’s hands tightening around Leroy’s slender wrists. When he was out there it was easier to forget, easier to feel like his old self. 

He pulled Kyle aside after lunch, fiddling with the sleeves of his training shirt and mumbling around his words. 

“Do you think you could give Jordan a bell for me? See how he’s doing?” 

“I’ve spoken to him.” 

John paused, looked between Kyle’s eyes closely. “Oh. And uh... is he -“ 

“He’s fine, John. He’s good.” 

“Oh,” John said. “Cool.” 

“What do you want me to say? He’s a fucking wreck, we’re all worried about him, he’s not coping?” 

“What? No?” 

“Well don’t look so disappointed. You finished with him, remember?” 

“I’m well aware,” John snapped, feeling his good mood decline. “Cheers, Walks.” 

John walked away with a shake of his head, unsure why he was being made out to be a villain. It wasn’t his fucking fault if he wasn’t feeling it, was it? He’d done the right thing. At least he hadn’t cheated. 

John rounded the corner and bumped right into Leroy and Ilkay who were chattering happily in German. 

“John,” Ilkay said by way of greeting, smiling warmly at him. “How is it going?” 

“Not too bad, man. What’s happening?” 

“We’re just talking about Saturday,” Leroy said. “It‘ll be a good game.” 

“Yeah,” John agreed, falling into step beside them and heading in the direction of the outdoor pitches. “Champions League games are always just that bit better, know what I mean?” 

“Yeah, totally. It’s like, you grow up watching it don’t you. It feels weird to play yourself.” 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Ilkay interrupted, patting Leroy on the back. “See you out there.” 

John and Leroy walked in silence for a beat, and then Leroy spoke. “You weren’t here yesterday?” 

“No. Went to go and see my mum and dad.” 

“Oh. Is everything okay?” 

John shrugged and took a breath. “I mean, yeah. I finished with the guy I was seeing.” 

“Oh,” said Leroy. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“It’s fine,” John replied. “I’m okay.” 

“Was it... you don’t need to answer, but it was the goal keeper, was it? Who you were seeing?” 

John nodded. “Yeah. Him.” 

“I’m always here for you, if you need anything,” Leroy said, and it was clear he meant it. They were approaching the grass now and they’d have to end their conversation, but John’s heart was thumping with adrenalin. 

“Thanks, Leroy. I appreciate it.” 

John got back to practicing set pieces with extra vigour. It was ages before his heart settled down again. 

— 

They crashed out of the Champions League fucking spectacularly. 

Spurs absolutely did them in, and they weren’t expecting it - maybe it was a sense of arrogance on City’s part, maybe it was that Tottenham actually just played really well. Whatever it was, it punched the air right out of the team’s sails. The mood plummeted. 

After the game Pep tried to give them a rousing speech. We didn’t play well enough, they were better. We’ve lost the quad and we all need to deal with that. We focus on the triple now, only that. Be sad, sure. But not for long. We must keep going. Everyone was dejected and disappointed, though. They’d all thought they could do it, too - sure, some strain was beginning to show, but they believed in themselves. They’d believed this was their year. 

No one was talking very much in the changing rooms, heads down, energy levels low. John showered and dressed himself again slowly, nothing to rush home for that night. He asked Kyle if he wanted to come over for a drink but he said no, he had to get home to his family. John asked Raz the same thing and got the same answer, and he was considering asking Aymeric when Leroy looked at him from his cubby and said “I could use a drink.” 

“Oh. Yeah? You wanna come over?” 

Leroy beamed at John. “Yeah, I will. I’ll bring beer.” 

John grinned at him and finished tying his laces. Kyle leaned in close and said “I hope you know what you’re doing.” John watched him leave the changing rooms without looking back. 

— 

Leroy turned up at John’s five minutes before the agreed time. John gathered himself up, took a deep breath, and buzzed him in, greeting him at the door with a one armed hug. Leroy was carting a crate of beer and a bag of Doritos, shrugging on a laugh. 

“We probably deserve this,” he said, moving past John in a cloud of expensive aftershave. “Should I take my shoes off?” 

“Uh - whatever you want,” John answered as he closed the door. He was nervous and he hoped it didn’t show, hoped it wasn’t clear that his hands were shaking when he took the beer out of Leroy’s arms. He felt like a shadow of his former self and he gave himself a physical shake as he grabbed a bottle opener and a bowl in the kitchen. A-game, John. A-game. 

He joined Leroy on the sofa in the living room, opening a couple of bottle of beers and handing one to Leroy. 

“To... to the triple,” he said, tilting the neck of his bottle towards Leroy. 

“To the triple. Proust.” 

They made conversation easily. Leroy was talking about Germany and Schalke which John enjoyed, just watching him think and gesticulate and smile. He was really beautiful, strikingly so; there was no doubt in John’s mind that Leroy would’ve been a model in another life. 

The beers were sliding down easily and John began to feel quietly buzzed, his arm extending along the back of the couch, fingers trailing up and down the soft cotton of Leroy’s sweatshirt. They were laughing and moving closer, Leroy’s hand was on John’s knee, the space between them closing up inch by inch by inch. 

“I’ve always liked you, John,” Leroy was saying, looking at John through his eyelashes, cheeks tinged pink. “Always thought you were cool.” 

John couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t lame or too over the top, too incriminating, so he leaned in and touched his lips to Leroy’s. His brain exploded with words and sensations, screaming oh my god oh my god oh my god ohmygodohmygodohmygod. 

Leroy’s hands were around John’s neck, pulling him closer. Leroy kissed quickly but closed mouthed, fast and dry. John tried licking at his lips but Leroy didn’t let up on the pace, moving things quickly, progressing rapidly. He was leaning up, pressing into John’s chest, hungry and breathless. 

John could barely believe what was happening. Leroy let go of his lips to mouth down his neck, his hands moving to John’s waist. John gasped for breath and looked around the room wildly, feeling that things were just moving so quickly, there wasn’t enough time to think about it, to really get into it, and when Leroy was pulling on his belt and moving between his legs John’s brain was two steps behind, only realising that he wasn’t hard when his jeans were halfway down his thighs. 

“Wait - I’m -“ 

“What’s wrong?” Leroy said, pushing kisses to the inside of John’s left thigh. “You want this?” 

“I mean, yeah?” John said, willing his dick to get hard. “I - yeah, I do, but for some reason...” 

Leroy looked at John questioningly, putting his hands in the waist band of John’s pants and pulling them off. John grimaced as they both looked at his flaccid dick, lying there between his thighs like it’d been dragged to a party it had no intention of being at. 

“Maybe just - touch it a little bit? Usually does the trick,” John mumbled, opening his legs a bit wider. 

Leroy looked unsure but he picked it up anyway, nosing at the head, bumping it with his lips. John closed his eyes and repeated ‘Leroy Sanè is touching your dick’ over and over again in his head, but nothing was fucking happening, no heat in his belly, no intense need to rub up against something. Probably they’d rushed it too much, probably the kissing had been too hasty. 

“Leroy, let me - can I blow you?” 

Leroy looked up at John like he was unimpressed but shrugged anyway. “Okay?” 

So they switched positions, John getting on his knees on the floor, Leroy pulling down his jeans and sitting down on the sofa. John was good at this, he knew, and he went at it with vigour. Leroy was already pretty hard and after a few slurps he was fully so, his cock pretty and heavy in John’s hand. 

John got to work building a rhythm, his eyes fluttering closed as he bobbed his head. Leroy was quiet, grunting occasionally and letting a hand rest on the crown of John’s head. John’s mind wandered to the last time he’d done this to Jordan, last week early morning before work, both of them half asleep, Jordan laughing with his toothbrush in his mouth as John dropped to his knees in the bathroom. Jordan stopped laughing when John’s nose hit his pubic bone, moaning so gutturally minty foam dripped out of his mouth and into John’s hair. “Fuck, you’re amazing,” he’d said. John could feel himself getting hard just thinking of the memory and he opened his eyes shamefully, staring up at Leroy instead. Leroy, Leroy, Leroy. 

Leroy gave no warning when he came down John’s throat. John swallowed it because he was an expert and was quietly grateful that he was experienced in this or he’d have certainly panicked and got come all over the apartment’s furniture. 

“Thank you,” Leroy grunted, pulling his underwear back up. “That was good, fuck.” 

John wiped the back of his mouth and got up, picking up his jeans and moving to put them back on. 

“Don’t you - don’t you want one?” Leroy asked, frowning at John. “Is something wrong? Is it me?” 

John sighed and shook his head, feeling guilty that Leroy was taking it personally. “No, god. You’re perfect. It’s me,” he said. “It’s - the breakup and stuff. I’m sorry, my head’s all over.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, god. Yeah. Honestly.” 

Leroy looked unsure but he didn’t press the issue. Things were awkward then, and John just wanted to brush his teeth and go to bed. Leroy was the first to crack, getting up and making a show of looking at his watch. 

“I should go,” he said, nodding towards the door. “It’s late.” 

“Thanks for coming,” John said, kicking himself for his choice of words. “Over, I mean. Thanks for being here.” 

Leroy smiled that heart stopping smile and touched John’s face gently before heading out the door and into the night. 

John had to put his pillow T-shirt away that night, unable to look at it without guilt twisting deep in his stomach. 

— 

“Worth it?” 

John pulled out his EarPods and looked up at Kyle. “What?” 

“Was it worth it then? As good as you imagined?” 

“Fuck off, Kyle,” John muttered, sticking his EarPods back in. “Twat.” 

“No, really, I’m curious. You usually have a glow about you after a good shag and you look like shit, so I’m just wondering -“ 

“Seriously, fuck off!” John shouted, getting up from his seat and crowding Kyle backwards a step. “I don’t fucking need this!” 

Kyle scoffed but moved away, leaving John alone. 

John had nothing to be ashamed of. He had no regrets. He still couldn’t look Leroy in the eye when he came into the room. 

— 

John watched the Everton v United match in his flat. It was strange seeing Jordan for the first time in weeks, but what was even stranger was how frustratingly good he looked, like maybe he’d been thriving during their time apart. 

It was 4-0, Jordan had a spectacular clean sheet, and John spent an extra long time sitting on the floor of the shower. 

— 

John texted Jordan asking if he wanted to talk a month and a day after he’d walked out. 

Jordan didn’t reply, so John got drunk and phoned Leroy, invited him round brazenly. “I’ve got some making up to do,” he said, voice husky on the phone. “Come over.” 

John was on Leroy the minute he came in the door, crowding him up against the wall, knocking keys and junk mail off the table in the corridor. John went down on Leroy in the kitchen, pulling off before he could come again, thinking way too much about getting hard to be enjoying this as much as he should be. John palmed himself through his joggers furiously, thinking about a couple of times he’d had sex in the past that had really got him off - that time with the lingerie, the time he got off against his boxer shorts, the first time he’d had sex with a man - and there it was, late to the show but finally here - an erection. John let Leroy put his hand down John’s pants, let him wrap a loose fist around it. 

“I want to blow you, John,” Leroy said, voice low. 

John shuddered and nodded, leaning back against the wall to steady himself as Leroy pulled down his trousers - this time not being greeted by an embarrassing softie. John groaned as Leroy started sucking, losing himself to the sensation. This, he could always get on board with - a warm, wet mouth around him, maybe a little fast paced but still nice, still good, and it’d been so long and John was so horny, so desperate for this to be good, maybe he’d get to fuck Leroy, and then there were some fingers on his ball sack, pressing at the soft bit of skin between his arse and his dick and he was moaning, hands gripping the wall, mouth falling open, “Fuck, yeah, Jord, like that -“ 

John’s eyes sprang open. Leroy froze, looking up at him with his mouth full of dick, a frown on his face. John opened his mouth but nothing came out, utterly mortified. Leroy popped off and wiped his mouth, getting to his feet gingerly. 

“Leroy -“ 

“Maybe... we should not do this. Until you’re over your ex?” 

John pulled up his trousers and looked at Leroy apologetically. “I’m so sorry. I’m - I really like you, honestly. I don’t know what’s going on with me.” 

“I like you too, but John. It’s clear that you love him. You should be sure about this, okay? There’s no hard feelings, none whatsoever.” 

“I’m so sorry, honestly...” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Leroy said, pulling John into a hug. “It’s going to be okay.” 

John didn’t deserve this kindness. God knows he himself would be furious, but Leroy was understanding and soft and kind. John would never ever know how some people managed to be so wonderful so consistently. 

He and Leroy had tea and made awkward conversation for a while. John was sobering up quickly, the events of the evening bringing him back to his senses. 

“Are you ready for internationals?” Leroy asked casually, draining the last of his tea. 

“Internationals what?” 

“International break?” 

John frowned and stood up straight. “Isn’t that a couple months away?” 

“It’s in two weeks,” Leroy laughed, double checking the date on his phone. “Yeah. Just under two weeks.” 

“Oh,” John breathed, a new wave of anxiety washing over him. “Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I licherally am hating everything I’m writing rn idk why I have even uploaded this because it feels off but I hope you managed to enjoy nonetheless. I love you guys so much xxx


	3. Chapter 3

John walked into St George’s Park with his plastic Man City boot bags, his suitcase, and a stomach full of nerves. 

He’d barely been able to contain the anxiety when it dawned on him that he’d be seeing Jordan at international break for the first time in weeks. Over a month without contact, no phone calls or texts. John’s stuff was still in Jordan’s house, he hadn’t even fucking bothered going back for it. 

The drive down to London was spent agonising over whether to say hello or act cold, worrying about how Gareth was going to react when he realised the pair of them weren’t speaking. Would Jordan be able to be professional? He never had been in the past. John wondered if Jordan would cry or make a scene. Wondered if he’d be upset, needy. 

If John Stones knew people, and he did, Jordan was going to be an absolute wreck, and John was ready for it. He fucking missed Jordan, and he could accept that he’d made a mistake. When Jordan asked John to try again, John wouldn’t even argue. He’d fall into Jordan’s arms and they’d have sex, good sex. God, he missed having sex with Jordan. He missed Jordan so much. 

It was the usual routine once inside the training center. Cameras, awkward reunions, pretending to smile for social media. Things were ever so slightly tense after the results of the Premier League, and John knew Gareth would do some stupid team building exercise with the City and Liverpool lads, something they’d all hate but grin and bear for the sake of getting to wear the England shirt. 

John found Kyle talking to Chilwell and Madders and pressed himself into Kyle’s side, glancing round at the door every couple of seconds. 

“You nervous?” Kyle asked, shoving John off him. “You’re like a fucking limpet.” 

“Nah,” John said, holding himself up haughtily. “Why would I be?” 

“Because the guy you broke up with for no fucking reason is about to walk in and the pair of you are more prone to more drama than an episode of Ex On The Beach?” 

John was about to tell Kyle to shut the fuck up when he heard Jordan’s pealing laughter and felt every hair on his body stand on end. John turned his head and watched as Jordan and Declan Rice walked in, both wearing the grey uniform tracksuit, a camera following them and snapping continually. 

John’s heart tightened - Jordan looked... good. He looked healthy, happy. He was grinning widely at Rice, his eyes reduced to little crinkles. He looked fitter, like maybe he’d been working out in his free time. John watched Jordan breeze into the room casually, one hand in his pocket, shoulders relaxed, skin glowy. John had never been more in love with him. 

Jordan laughed uproariously at something Declan said and put his hand on his bicep. John felt himself scowling, his cheeks hotting up. Jordan was clearly flirting with the guy and John hated it, wanted to go over and slot against Jordan’s side. That was his person. John felt brave when he had Jordan, felt like he was part of a club that only the two of them knew about. 

So why had he finished with him? 

John’s stomach swooped as Jordan started walking in their direction, gait slow and confident. He tried to shrink himself down behind Kyle, wondering if his breath smelled bad after the M&S sandwich he’d picked up for lunch. 

“Alright lads?” Jordan said, holding out a hand to Maddison and then Chilwell, both of them greeting him warmly with hand shakes and hugs, pats on the back. Jordan turned to Kyle and gave him a one armed hug, smiling warmly at him, both of them greeting each other in low voices, and then it was John’s turn. 

John stepped out from behind Kyle and looked at Jordan, expecting to see something, anything, a sign on his face that he was hurting as much as John had been. Instead, there was nothing. Calm blue eyes, an easy smile, slightly raised eyebrows. 

“Hiya, John.” 

“Jordan,” John said, folding his arms across his chest childishly. 

“How you been?” 

How you been? John could feel himself getting frustrated, and he tried his hardest to keep his face neutral. “Really good, yeah. Really good.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jordan said, smiling maturely. “You look great.” 

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. John shrugged and said “Okay.” 

Kyle was talking loudly to Ben and James in an attempt to give John and Jordan some privacy, but he needn’t have bothered because Jordan was moving away again, off to speak to Eric and Dele who had just breezed in the door. John watched him go and bit down on his lip. He hadn’t expected things to go that way at all. 

“Told you he was fine,” Kyle said, to which John turned around and walked away. 

— 

They had thirty minutes to change into training gear and get down to the pitch for some media stuff. It was an open training, fans and cameras everywhere, and John was doing a really poor job of looking like he wanted to be where he was. 

He kept staring wistfully after Jordan, wondering why he wasn’t... doing anything. Was it possible Jordan was over it? That he’d let John walk out initially because he didn’t actually care anymore? It made sense. John had long learned that reading between the lines of what people were telling you was important. Jordan was over it, and he clearly didn’t give a fuck. Well fine. 

John stuck to Kyle’s side like glue. Eventually Kyle turned around and shoved at him half heartedly, hissing “Stop following me!” John looked at him like a wounded animal and went off to stick himself to Eric Dier instead, who was always much kinder than Kyle Walker ever had been. 

Whenever John was in social situations he coped by forming alliances and bonds, inserting himself into cliques and finding best friends so that he would never be alone. He’d done it since he was at school, a sure fire way to ensure one was never left out, left without a partner or a friend to sit next to on the bus. Jordan was different though - he was so satisfied in his own bubble, so happy by himself, he didn’t need a best friend or another half. He was friends with everyone and close with no one, and the only exception had been the time he’d been with John, the pair of them gravitating towards each other whenever the opportunity arose. 

John watched Jordan flit from person to person easily, casual in a way John could never be. He was touchy with Kyle, hanging off his every word like he really looked up to him. He bantered easily with Ben and even Maguire, his eyes merely passing over John’s face from time to time, throwing him a tight lipped smile here and there. 

Their practice didn’t last long, and then they had to walk up and down the lines of fans signing shirts and taking selfies. By the time they were done John was tired and crabby. He wanted a cuddle, a cup of tea, and a back rub. He wanted a time machine so he could go back to that night with the text message on Jordan’s phone and tell himself to wind his fucking neck in. 

He was trying and failing to open a sachet of ketchup at a table on his own when Jordan finally sidled up beside him and looked at him properly. John paused with the the packet between his teeth and stared back, wondering if this was it - the moment Jordan broke down in tears and told John he hadn’t been coping without him, that he needed him, that he loved him, that he was - 

“Are you alright?” He said instead, and was that pity in his eyes? John took the ketchup out of his mouth and frowned crossly. 

“Obviously. Why would I not be?!” 

Jordan reached over and took the sauce from John’s slightly trembling hands, tearing the packet open in one quick movement and squirting it next to John’s grilled chicken, just where he liked it, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly. 

“Eric asked me to check on you. He said you’ve been following him around.” 

John narrowed his eyes at Jordan. “You - I - you haven’t said a fucking word to me for over a month.” 

“You asked for space,” Jordan said simply, like it was easy, obvious. His calmness was infuriating John, and he wanted to punch him. “So I gave you space. Glad you’re okay though.” 

Jordan got up and walked away, and John stabbed his chicken so hard with his fork that it flew off his plate. 

— 

John had been in Kyle’s room complaining for close to an hour. 

“He clearly doesn’t give a fuck about us anymore, and it’s just - why’s he wasted my time all year if he wasn’t being serious? Was he going to finish with me or what?” 

Kyle was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He hadn’t said a word for the last fifteen minutes, but that wasn’t deterring John. 

“He’s a fucking fake, that’s what he is. Why’s he flouncing around here acting like Mahatma fucking Gandhi? Fake as fuck!” 

“Can you get out of here and let me go to bed?” Kyle said, walking out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and making his way to the bed. “Please? It’s late.” 

“You’re a shit friend,” John said, getting up. “Turning your back on me in my hour of need.” 

“You have no idea how terrible you’re being, do you?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I said goodnight, John. I love you. Can’t wait to spend another day with you tomorrow.” 

“Fuck you,” John mumbled, getting his shoes on and heading to the door. “Twat.” 

He didn’t bother turning off the main light for Kyle as he left, the door closing heavily behind him. He was alone again, left to mull over his sad life. He dragged his feet over to his own room, stripping down and brushing his teeth. John got into bed and exhaled a sigh so long it was comical, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep but found that he wasn’t tired, uncomfortable in this bed, tossing and turning and tossing and turning and it occurred to him that he needed his T-shirt pillow, didn’t he? Except he’d not brought it with him. Didn’t think he’d need it. What was he supposed to do? If he didn’t sleep he’d be shit at work and he’d let everyone down. There was one thing for it. 

John got up and tugged on a pair of joggers, then picked up his room key and headed off down the corridor, door after door after door until he came to the room he was after. He knocked and waited. 

Jordan literally had the audacity to shout “One minute, John,” before there was the sound of a flushing toilet and a running tap. John gasped, enraged - how dare he. He nearly turned around and walked away but then Jordan was there, opening the door and smiling at John, and John was really going to smack him in the fucking mouth. 

“How did you know?!” 

“Who else would it be?” 

“I need - give me your top,” John snapped, nodding at the white Nike t Jordan was wearing. “Hand it over.” 

“You’ve got your own.” 

“I need yours,” John said exasperatedly, wondering if he should just push into the room and get into bed. 

“What for?” 

“I need it to sleep!” John half whispered, turning around and checking no one else was in the corridor. “I had one and I didn’t bring it and I need one to sleep.” 

Jordan stared at him blankly for a millisecond and then burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his hand and wheezing with it. 

“Fuck off!” John said, furious. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just - people don’t act like this in real life John, Jesus Christ.” 

“I clearly do,” John said, a bit hurt. Jordan definitely didn’t care, then, that was obvious. “Forget it,” he said, turning around. 

“John - here, here, I’m sorry,” Jordan said, gathering himself enough to pull the top over his head, handing it in a still warm bundle to John. “You know I think you’re very sweet.” 

Jordan closed the door before John had time to comment on how patronising that was. He stomped back to his room, and fifteen minutes later he was fast asleep with Jordan’s T-shirt under his cheek. 

— 

The next day John resolved to stop moping and give himself a shake. If Jordan could act like he didn’t care, then so could John. 

John breezed into breakfast, letting himself be larger than life. He messed around with Jesse as they poured cereal, ate his banana suggestively whilst staring at Kyle, fucked around with Dele putting spoonfuls of salt in people’s tea when they weren’t looking. John didn’t even notice that Jordan had come in and was sitting with Declan again, chattering away over matching bowls of porridge. 

“Do you think Rice and Pickford are fucking?” John blurted out, looking at the person closest to him who happened to be Trent. 

Trent choked on his mouthful of food and looked at John with wide eyes. “What? Of course not?” 

“Of course not - team mates don’t do that, or of course not - Jordan doesn’t fancy him?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Trent said, and he looked genuinely a bit concerned, and John felt bad because Trent was young and he hadn’t been around for long and maybe he genuinely didn’t know what went on when they were all in SGP and it was lights out. 

“Nothing,” John said, getting up as Jordan did. “See you out there.” 

John followed Jordan as he discarded his tray, heading off to put on his boots and get started for the day. 

“Jordan!” He called, jogging to catch up. “What’s going on?” 

“With what?” Jordan said, mouth moving as he wiggled his tongue between his molars. 

“You and Declan. Thought you would’ve at least had the respect for me to tell me if you were planning on going there.” 

“Like you had the respect for me to tell me about Sanè?” 

John froze, feeling the colour drain from his face. He was going to fucking kill Kyle. “Whatever Kyle’s told you -“ 

“Kyle didn’t tell me anything. Leroy phoned us weeks ago and asked if I cared if he and you did stuff together. Said he didn’t want any trouble.” 

John looked at Jordan with wild eyes. Jordan still looked unbothered, his finger in his mouth now, a bit of granola in there bothering him. John felt like he was going to black out. “What the fuck? And then what, you told him you didn’t give a fuck?” 

Jordan shook his head. “Told him to batter in, but I didn’t think anything was going to happen.” 

“Wait - what? Can you stop fucking - Jordan! Stop walking for a fucking minute and look at me!” Jordan stopped and looked at John with his eyebrows raised. “Who are you to say what I’m going to do or not do?!” 

“Well, did you shag him?” 

John paused for a moment, considering. Did he lie, and preserve his dignity? Did he lie to prove Jordan wrong? Did he lie because even if he hadn’t, he’d still wanted to? In the end he sighed and shook his head. “No.” 

“Well then,” Jordan said, beaming at him and disappearing off to lace up his boots. 

— 

They dragged John and Kyle off to do a megs video half way through the day, so John’s time spent moping around near Jordan didn’t last too long. 

By the time they got done with the video it was evening and everyone was gathering up their things for the flight to the Netherlands. John threw his shit into his suitcase absently, meeting Kyle back in the corridor and heading down to the coach together. 

They were the last ones on the bus, and they took seats at the front near Gareth and some of the staff. John stuck in his earbuds, let his head rest against the glass, and sighed. 

Jordan sat next to Kyle on the plane before John could. John didn’t even feel like arguing. He plonked himself down beside Henderson, catching the tail end of a conversation Jordan was having on the phone. When he hung up he looked at John and smiled, and John looked at him in awe. 

“Jordan - can you do that again?” He said, blinking at him. 

“Do what?” 

“Just... talk?” John said. “Tell me about your day.” 

Henderson looked suspicious, but John must’ve seemed desperate because Jordan sighed and started telling John about the interviews he’d done in the morning, the set pieces they’d practiced in the afternoon. John didn’t know if it was clear that he’d just really, really missed the accent, but Jordan didn’t say anything about that. John was grateful. 

— 

They could sleep in the next day, their match not until later that evening. John took full advantage and slept until 11 in the morning, grabbing a late lunch with Kyle and Raz when he finally got up. 

Their game wasn’t going to be easy. There were some solid players in the Netherlands national team - their defence was tight, their team a well oiled machine. Half of the England team hated each other after the season, and they were all fucking exhausted besides - this international break was feeling less like a privilege and more like a chore, John dragging his feet as they gathered to head over to the stadium later that evening. 

Jordan wasn’t ignoring him but he wasn’t paying him attention either, and it was driving John crazy. It always made him wild when Jordan did this, even before they got together - when he wasn’t centre of attention, John combusted. John had been the one to leave, sure, but Jordan was the one acting like he didn’t care. He’d told Leroy he had a green light to move in. He’d stayed silent all the time they were apart. He was here now, not even looking at John when they were in the same room. John didn’t know what he had to do to get his attention. 

The boys lined up in the tunnel in their white kit, sang the national anthem, moved out into position on the field. John had been surprised Gareth had chosen him to start when he hadn’t started for City for weeks, but he wasn’t complaining. It was nice standing alongside Kyle and even Harry, Jordan behind them. John made a show of bending over on more than one occasion. 

He couldn’t decide between playing badly to rile Jordan and playing well to impress him but in the end he didn’t get to choose, instinct taking over when the Netherlands began pressing them from the off and John had to drop his problems and focus solely on keeping the ball the fuck away from the net. 

It felt natural having Jordan shout commands at him, sweat pouring, his chest rising and falling with his breaths. There was no space to think about anything else. Soon the ball was making it’s way back toward the England goal, and John got down low, tracking it carefully. Depay got the ball, hovered over it for a nanosecond, and kicked, and John flicked his leg out and gave the ball a goal saving deflection. 

The ball went out of play and the Netherlands were awarded a corner kick. Kyle high fived John, and John turned to Jordan, seeking praise or acknowledgment, a quick slap on the back, anything. Jordan wasn’t even looking at him, was instead busy organising bodies. John swallowed it down and got into space marking Virgil. 

The ref blew the whistle and the ball started spinning toward the mass of players waiting in front of the goal. John crouched and then jumped just at the right time, his head craning towards the ball as it came down right where he was standing, waiting for it, waiting to be cleared, and then - 

John heard a sharp crack and felt pain blooming over his skull. It was hot, immediate pain, sharp and demanding. John felt the Earth rush up to meet him and he groaned, hand going to his head, grass against his cheek. John heaved against the ground, stomach rolling with the pain he was experiencing. The first thing he registered was Jesse, his voice cutting through the din. 

“Stonesy? Fuck, mate, y’alright?” 

And then there were hands on him, gloves on him, goal keeper gloves on him. Turning him onto his back carefully. John blinked up against the floodlights as Jordan swam into view, his hands still on John’s waist. That was nice, John thought. He liked that. 

“John? You alright, buddy?” 

John couldn’t answer, not without feeling like he was going to throw up. He focussed on Jordan’s face, wondered why it was moving a bit. Jordan removed his hand and John wanted to protest until he saw that he was just removing his glove, pulling at the strap with his teeth and tugging the thing off. He held up his hand in front of John’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

John cleared his throat and frowned. “Four?” He said, swallowing a gulp of air. 

Jordan shook his head and waved his hand in the air then. “Medic!” He shouted, bringing the hand back down into John’s bare hip, his thumb brushing the skin. John let his eyes flutter closed, focussing on the sensation. “Hey, John. Stay with us,” Jordan said, patting him now. “Don’t close your eyes.” 

John opened them again, because Jordan told him to, and smiled up at him. Jordan smiled back but it wasn’t enough to mask the concern on his face, and John wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he didn’t get the chance because the medics were there and Jordan had to step back. 

“Jordan?!” John said, feeling a bit panicked as the staff shined lights in his eyes, touched his head, began calling for a stretcher. 

“I’m here,” Jordan said, his hand finding John’s knee and squeezing. “I’m here.” 

The medics were saying things, John wasn’t sure exactly what, but he caught the words ‘head wound’ and ‘concussion’ and ‘bleeding’. They lifted him onto the stretcher when it arrived, and John looked around for Jordan, not wanting to be alone. Jordan was right there though, right by his side. 

“Let me finish this half, John, and I’ll come find you, yeah?” Jordan was saying, jogging alongside the stretcher. John nodded as hard as he could given his injury, eyes remaining on Jordan until he could no longer see him. 

They carted him off down the tunnel and into the medical room, helping him onto a bed. There was blood running down his head and one of the medics started mopping at it immediately, trying to determine how deep the wound was. John hissed as they wiped at it, communicating over his head in medical terms that John couldn’t grasp. 

“Wound’s only superficial,” John heard one say. “Won’t need stitches.” 

John breathed a sigh of relief and focussed on the clock on the wall, trying to stop the room from spinning. The doctors were talking to him and he was responding, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they were talking about. They gave him something for the pain, took off his boots for him, gave him an ice pack to hold to his head. Eventually the pain began to lessen and things stopped moving and all John felt was bone tired. 

He must’ve dozed off because he woke up and Jordan and Gareth were there, talking to the medics in low voices. Jordan was already changed, back in his grey joggers. 

“Jord,” John said, head foggy. Jordan and Gareth turned around then, both looking at him worriedly. “Did we win?” 

“Yeah, we won,” Gareth said, smiling. “How you feeling lad?” 

“Tired,” John said, smiling sleepily. “Smelly.” 

“Let’s get you back to the hotel, shall we?” Gareth said. “Can you walk?” 

John nodded even though he wasn’t sure, swinging his legs round. Someone had put his trainers on him, which was nice, and as he got to his feet the room span a bit. John reached out and grabbed Jordan, leaning on him for strength. Jordan wrapped his arm around John’s waist and took his weight, and then they were walking, slowly but steadily. 

John let Jordan help him onto the bus. The lads were chattering quietly. Some of them leaned over to ask how he was doing, and John simply smiled or gave the thumbs up, head lolling back against the seat in its ridiculous bandage. They drove home in silence, John still in his kit, the jiggling of the engine rattling his brain. Jordan nudged him when they arrived at the hotel, wakening him from his doze, and John let him help him down off the bus, into the foyer, up the elevator. 

“Thanks,” John said when they arrived at their floor, patting his shorts for his key. “Oh. I don’t have any of my stuff.” 

“Kyle’s got your bag, I’ve got your phone,” Jordan said, pulling out his own keycard and nodding towards his room. “You can’t stay on your own tonight, medics said. You’re in with me.” 

John smiled because he was too exhausted to hide it, following Jordan and walking into his room as he opened the door. Jordan led him to the bathroom, where he closed the toilet lid and helped John sit down. 

Jordan turned the taps on the big bath tub, picking up a tube of mini bubble bath the hotel provided and squeezing some into the tub. He turned back to John with a soft expression and crouched down on his knees before him, removing his trainers with two gentle thuds. Jordan hooked his fingers in John’s white socks and pulled them off, placing his shin guards down carefully beside his shoes. Then he stood up and motioned for John to raise his arms, lifting at the hem of his shirt and pulling it up, over his head, careful not to interfere with the bandage wrapped around him. 

Jordan pulled John to his feet, ensuring he was steady before crouching down again himself, hands on his hips to balance him. Jordan pulled on the waist band of his shorts, his regulation white undies, and removed them. There was no embarrassment, because why would there be? John simply stepped forward when Jordan got back to his feet and experimentally laid his forehead on Jordan’s shoulder, exhaling a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, small enough to be carried away by the sound of the running water. 

Jordan put one hand on the back of John’s neck and held him, the other on the small of his back. “Nothing to be sorry for. We can talk about it later, okay?” He moved John towards the bathtub, checking the temperature of the water and turning off the tap. He helped John get in and sit down, and then picked up his loofah and started running water over his back, up his neck, washing away sweat and grass and blood. 

“What even happened?” John asked. 

“You and Van Dijk collided.” 

“Oh. He okay?” 

“Burst nose.” 

“Oh no. That’s not good.” 

“Don’t think Henderson’s pleased.” 

“No, don’t imagine he will be.” 

Jordan brought the loofah down John’s forearm, sudsy bubbles popping up over his skin. John turned his head sleepily and let his face touch Jordan’s, their noses moving together as John sought out his mouth. Jordan laughed gently and moved away, his expression not unkind. 

“Not right now,” he said. “Slow down.” 

John let Jordan finish cleaning him and thought about how different this moment was in comparison to when they’d first started all this. The circumstances were the same - international break, hotel rooms, uncertainty. But instead of rushed hand jobs and a lack of eye contact and feigned nonchalance, it was this. It was Jordan taking care of John with no agenda, no reason to do so other than love. John had been so certain, a month ago, that a sure thing wasn’t what he wanted from his life, not at 25. Yet he was certain now, in this moment, that he’d never needed anything more. 

Jordan helped John out of the bath, drying him down with a big fluffy towel. He provided a pair of his own underwear, which he helped John into, and then he pulled back the sheets on the big marshmallow bed and watched as John lay down, letting out an enormous sigh and closing his eyes. John wanted to ask if Jordan would be getting in too but he was so fucking tired, eyes closing against his will, and he knew instinctively that he would be. 

— 

John woke up to the sound of Jordan’s alarm. It jolted him from sleep, and he became aware at first of a dull ache in his head, then of a body wrapped around him, then of fingers against his abdomen, breath on the back of his neck. 

John reached over to shut off the shrill ringing and then turned over in bed, still half asleep. He pulled the duvet up over their heads and laid his mouth on Jordan’s, soft and a bit off target at first but then kissing him properly like he’d done a thousand times before, his morning routine for months and months and months. Jordan kissed him back, body moving under John’s as his brain started firing up, getting itself in gear, knee propping up to allow John to slide into the gap of his legs, hands pulling his waist down, fingers sliding against his still warm skin, fluttering up his ribs, over his broad shoulders, ankle slipping against downy calves - and then he stopped, pushing at John and getting out from under him, tossing the covers off and looking around the room with furrowed brows. 

“Sorry,” John said, sitting down cross legged, heart thumping a bit. “I forgot myself, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Jordan answered, looking over at John. “So did I. It’s okay.” 

“I made a mistake,” John said, his voice needy suddenly. “Before. I shouldn’t have walked out. I get that you don’t want me anymore, I’m not trying to change your mind. But I was wrong and I wish I didn’t do it.” 

“Who said I don’t want you anymore?” 

“You told Leroy to ‘batter in’?” 

“Only because I knew you wouldn’t, John. I wanted you to see that for yourself.” 

“How can you know that though? I wanted to. With him, I did want to.” 

“But you didn’t because you love me,” Jordan said simply. “I knew you were skittish when I got involved with you. None of this is surprising to me.”

“Skittish -“ 

“I wouldn’t just give up on you for behaving exactly the way you always have done.” 

“I don’t know if you’re trying to insult me -“ 

“I’m not,” Jordan laughed, getting up and turning on the overhead light. “I’m just telling you why I’m not like... kicking off. How’s your head?” 

“Fine,” John said, even though it was throbbing. “But what about - why won’t you kiss me?” 

“You’re over it, are you? You want to get back?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Just because I get why you’ve done it, doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt,” Jordan said over his shoulder as he pulled on his clothes. “You should get dressed, don’t want to miss the flight.” 

“So you - you don’t want to try again?” 

“I do, and we will. But I’m not just getting back with you because you snapped your fingers at me. Seriously, get up, gonna be late -“ 

“I haven’t snapped my fingers. I haven’t done anything beggy, I wouldn’t -“ 

“You wouldn’t beg for me?” Jordan said, grinning as he stuffed things in his suitcase. “Not helping yourself, Johnny.” 

“I’m injured and I need to know if I’m coming home to my own bed, Jord, stop fucking about with me!” 

Jordan stopped packing and looked at John. “I want to shag other people too.” 

“What?” 

“You got to try with Leroy. I want to try now. So, I’m going to do that. Then we can talk about where we go from there.” 

“You’re - this is upsetting me, Jord.” 

“It upset me when you stormed out the door for no reason. It upset me when I got a phone call off the best looking bloke in the prem asking if he could shag my boyfriend.” 

John bit his lip, tears prickling. His head hurt so bloody much. “So I just need to - what, I just need to wait? Till you’re done?” 

Jordan shrugged. “Yeah? But go and pack, alright? I don’t want you to miss the flight.” 

John got up and left before he could burst into tears. He definitely deserved it, and yet. John carried himself down the corridor sadly, wearing only someone else’s pants and a white bandage around his head. 

— 

Kyle drove John home from the airport. 

It was quiet the whole time. John didn’t feel like talking, just looking out the window sadly. Jordan had only nodded at him when they landed, disappearing off god knows where with god knows who. John wanted to text him, phone him, fucking DM him, but he knew he had to leave it alone. It would do no good to push the matter. 

Fifteen minutes away from John’s flat, Kyle turned the radio down and cleared his throat. “So. You and him talk?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“He wants to see other people for a while.” 

Kyle was silent, didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.” 

John shrugged, let his forehead tilt against the window. “He said he wasn’t surprised I did it.” 

“Don’t say anything, but. If it makes you feel better - he wasn’t okay. Like, at first. He was a fucking mess, John. He really loves you.” 

“I know he does,” John said, throat beginning to feel tight. “I wish I could take it back.” 

“Yeah, well.” 

John got out the car, thanked Kyle for the lift. He opened the door on his apartment and cried for a little while because this wasn’t home, and coming back from a trip to a cold, strange place like this was tough. He ordered a chippy and unpacked, throwing all the clothes in the laundry basket. He held onto the T-shirt Jordan had leant him, pulling it on over his head and getting into bed, crying like a loser into his pillow, imagining Jordan calling someone to come over, shagging them to celebrate his win. Finding out that John was actually shit in bed and he’d been wasting his time. Deciding he didn’t want to get back together after all. 

John was snottering all over the bed sheets by the time the door went with his delivery. He got out of bed and moped to the door, sniffling sadly. He didn’t even bother checking the screen, buzzing it up and holding open the front door. He was thinking that it’d be good if delivery drivers also fed you the food when the elevator doors opened and - that was not his chippy. 

“Dry your eyes you daft bastard. Of course I’m not shagging anyone else,“ Jordan said, rolling his eyes and bowling straight into John’s flat, mouth going as he chewed on a bit of gum, looking around at the place. “This is posh.” 

“What the fuck?” 

“You’re coming home. I miss you. Come here.” 

John let the door slam closed and he moved towards Jordan quickly, closing the distance, arms outstretched - but Jordan stopped him, hand in the middle of his chest. 

“If you ever do this to me again, skittish or not, there won’t be a second chance.” 

“I won’t. I promise.” 

“I’m so pissed off with you.” 

“I’m pissed off with me too.” 

“My mum wants to kill you.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Leroy Sanè is never welcome in our house again.” 

“Shit kisser anyway.” 

“I’ve fantasised about nothing but punching you in the face for 7 weeks.” 

“Please just fucking kiss me.” 

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Stones is a twat, but we knew that xxx


End file.
